


You Tomorrow, Next Year

by ashheaps



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: Drinking, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashheaps/pseuds/ashheaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amy feels alone on her birthday. Sometimes, the distance doesn't matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Tomorrow, Next Year

It’s never just one picture, with the dogs. The tiniest, Chippy, is an incredibly selfish ball of fur. So Amy tucks her under her arm while Heidi’s chasing the big dogs with the wig in one hand, phone in the other. 

Chippy’s the one who burrows her head under Amy’s jacket. Amy zips it up, wrapping the dog like a blanket at her side. Chippy stays still, content with the snuggling, while Amy digs through the Party City bag for the noise makers. She unwraps one for herself, grabs a lei too. Heidi’s in the hallway, dangling a treat close to the camera.

She gets the shot, but the dog doesn’t shake off the rainbow wig immediately. Amy leans against the doorframe, makes a stupid face at the dog on the floor. She puts the noise maker in her mouth and the end unrolls with a honk. The dog tilts his head towards her, which Amy takes as inviting. She drapes the lei over his neck, which prompts him to paw it off. 

“Oh well,” Amy shrugs.

“Aw, cute!” Heidi notes, turns the lens to Amy at the jamb. “The big guys are gonna be jealous.”

The photographer has her party hat still strapped on, a blaring neon image of a smiley face, a stylized flower and peace sign. She snaps a frame of Amy leaning easily with the dog at her side.

“Where’s your tiara?!” Heidi exclaims.

“Chippy’s the real princess,” says Amy, “birthday or not.”

Chippy sneezes, snout to Amy’s side.

“That is so rude, Chippy,” Heidi scolds, “but bless you.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Amy draws out.

The dog on the floor has gotten the wig off, sniffing at the interior. 

“That’s enough,” Heidi grabs it from the floor. She holds her phone out, thumb poised over the screen.

Amy’s head droops to the wall; she lets out an unintentionally dramatic sigh.

“Not cute enough to hold your attention?” Heidi asks.

“No, just,” Amy closes her eyes, “I want to get laid,” she admits.

Heidi gives her this sidelong look, brows furrowed.

“Give me my dog,” she requests cautiously.

“Shut up,” Amy jests. She cradles the dog through her jacket, slides her hand in the pocket securely. Chippy makes little noises, just indescribable yelps that she’s named after, like she’s trying to participate in the conversation.

“She wants birthday sex, baby,” Heidi informs her dog, “nothing either of us can help her with.”

Amy groans, rolls her eyes.

“This sucks,” Amy pouts.

“I know, Chippy, she’s a whiner,” Heidi continues.

“You’re insufferable. Here, you two belong together,” Amy unzips her jacket, passes the dog to Heidi.

“Yes, we’re made for each other,” Heidi kisses Chippy’s milky crown.

“I’m gonna head home and take a birthday bath,” Amy proposes.

Heidi tries to set Chippy down, but the dog protests, tries to jump back into Heidi’s arms.

“I know Chippy, we don’t need the hairy details,” says Heidi.

“Goodnight, ladies,” Amy bids, pivoting on her heel.

“Wait, really,” Heidi tucks her dog next to her body. She extends her free arm, pulls Amy in for a genuine hug, “Happy Birthday. I hope, I mean, I know I’m no Liz, but, I hope it was a good one. For you,” Heidi bites her lips.

“Thank you,” is all Amy says, both arms wrapped around her.

Amy grabs the unopened bottle of champagne from the kitchen counter on her way out. She has a little difficulty getting it open, in her own kitchen. So much so that she doesn’t think twice about pouring half the bottle into a large plastic cup. 

She sets herself up nicely on the balcony, felt blanket over her legs and her bad one propped up on the empty chair. She’s four long gulps into the cup when she decides to go on Skype, just through her phone. 

Becky’s on, which strikes her as odd given the time change between Utah and Portugal. The opportunity is golden; Amy opens a chat window.

“Awake late or up early?” she types, one-handed with the cup to her lips.

The response lags a little, three dots blinking as Becky types.

“Weird dream woke me up. You?” Becky sends.

“Coming down from my bday celebration, obviously,” Amy sends.

“Happy Birthday! Of course : )” Becky responds.

“Thanks,” Amy says, simply. The crickets are loud, an impending spring emerging from between the frost. 

“We can call, if you want. Alone in the room,” Becky offers. 

They’re always in communication, one way or another. But with her injury, and the tournament’s quiet sting in Amy’s chest, Amy hasn’t initiated anything in a few weeks. 

“One sec,” Amy sends. She uproots, gathers her things. With a small detour to the kitchen where she dumps the rest of the bottle gracelessly, she settles onto the couch. 

She takes a deep breath, a huge gulp, and then hits the call button. She turns off the camera, but Becky doesn’t. When she picks up, Amy can see the computer monitor reflecting in Becky’s glasses.

“Sup?” Amy asks. 

“I can’t see you,” Becky says, first thing.

“I’m on my phone,” Amy excuses, holding the microphone closest to her mouth, screen up. Becky’s eyelashes flutter, hardly visible through the lenses. 

“Happy Birthday,” Becky continues. “How many candles now? Forty? Forty-one?”

“Ha ha,” Amy deadpans, “You’re not far behind.” 

There’s a certain looseness to Amy’s tongue. She thinks it might pass, but nothing gets through Becky. Becky tilts her head; the light against her face changes slightly.

“You’re drunk,” observes Becky.

“Well,” Amy pauses, “it is my birthday.”

Amy hauls her knee up against the coffee table, stretches the good leg against the couch cushions.

“What’s your poison?” 

“J. Roget,” Amy mumbles.

“Oh boy,” Becky responds. Amy can see the wide smile, even though it’s pixilated. “You’d think a woman in her thirties would at least spring for some Moet. Especially on her birthday.”

“Yeah, yeah, big talk from someone who can’t shoot anything but vodka,” Amy brings up.

“Couple shots of vodka would take care of this insomnia,” Becky notes, a joking lilt to her voice.

“A weird dream, huh?” Amy provokes.

“I don’t even remember it,” Becky excuses, preemptively, “plus my shoulder’s singing and I couldn’t get comfortable.”

“Where’s your roommate?” Amy asks. 

She feels brazen, hot in her jeans. She sets the phone on the coffee table, juts her hips up to shuck her pants without a second thought. 

“Where’s Krieger?” Becky retorts, incredulous.

“Ah,” Amy says, unspoken sentiments settling between them.

“So what’d you do today?” Becky proposes, “how’d you celebrate?” 

Amy watches her settle into her pillows, watches Becky’s head fall back against the headboard. She’s not looking at the screen, nothing to see, but Amy can’t tear her eyes away. 

“Nothing too special. PT, phone calls to my loved ones,” Amy trails off.

“Glad to be on the list,” Becky levels. 

Amy didn’t see it coming; it takes her a beat too long to respond.

“I didn’t, mean,” Becky starts.

“I’m alone,” Amy quips.

“Okay,” Becky whispers. 

It’s something they’ve danced around forever, always underlying, unspoken. Attraction is the wrong word. Maybe curiosity fits better.

“On my birthday,” Amy says.

“Sucks,” Becky whispers. 

She takes off her glasses, sets them out of frame. Her hair is pulled back, but there’s a halo of blonde fly-aways backlit by the bedside lamp. Amy takes a swig of champagne. The carbonation sticks in her throat, makes her voice lidded and thick.

“I think you know,” Amy clears her airway, “what I want.”

“What?” Becky says.

“How to make it better,” Amy supplies.

Becky’s not looking at the screen, but Amy can see her face change.

“You want me to,” Becky’s voice drops off. 

Amy watches her movements closely in the tiny screen, catches the corner of the book that Becky removes from her lap. Amy dares to wonder, dares to imagine Becky’s hands dipping between her legs too.

“Just, with me,” Amy suggests.

Amy’s already palming the crotch of her panties, breath heavy.

“It’s not fair,” Becky stakes.

Amy doesn’t want to read into it, doesn’t want to jump to the wrong conclusion.

“Hmm?” Amy pries.

“I can’t see you,” Becky’s looking right at the camera’s eye when she says it. The power in her eyebrows makes Amy’s spine shudder.

“Imagine me,” Amy says. 

She closes her eyes, lets her head drop between the couch back and arm.

“Give me some details,” Becky counters.

Amy clears her throat again, continues the slow, teasing motion of her fingertips over the seams.

“M’on my couch,” Amy starts. “Wearing a t shirt. No pants.”

“Me either,” Becky’s voice is hollowed.

“Legs spread, phone in my right hand,” Amy leads.

“Where’s your left hand?” 

The frame changes; Becky lowers the screen slightly. Her silhouette fills the whole frame, the very tip of her forehead skimming the camera’s scope. Amy has a better view her chest, the subtle mounds of her breasts blending into the folds of cotton. Becky’s breath is deep too, uneven.

“Between my legs,” Amy admits, bites her lips.

“Are you--?” Becky asks.

“No, not,” Amy gulps, “not yet. Should I?” 

“Yeah,” Becky whispers.

Amy hums, doesn’t have to confirm anything with Becky.

“Just, one finger,” Amy says, “for now. Lightly, touching.”

“Yeah?”

“M’ wet,” Amy grunts. 

“Turned on,” Becky notes.

“Yeah,” Amy agrees. She shuts her eyes.

“Play with your clit,” Becky turns the phrase easily, “small circles.”

Her voice is coded, almost sharp with the ambiance of air conditioners and distance.

“That’s,” Amy inhales, “yeah that’s nice. I like,” Amy breathes again, “like when you say it.”

“Don’t go too fast,” Becky warns, “Draw it out. Make yourself wait.”

“I won’t. I mean, I, okay,” Amy concedes.

“You like two fingers? Two points of,” Becky pauses, “pressure.”

“Do you?” Amy asks, devious.

“Yeah,” Becky heaves.

“Two is nice. Better inside,” Amy admits.

The laptop shifting sends a whiff of air through the speaker.

“You’re with me,” Amy notes. 

“Yeah,” repeats Becky.

Amy cricks her eyes open, chances a look at the screen. Becky’s arm disappears at a strange angle from the camera’s eye. The picture’s fine, a little dingy, but Amy can still make out the subtle flex of Becky’s muscles, the purposeful tension and release in her bicep.

“You can tell me,” Amy incites, “how you feel. What you want.”

“I’m wet, too. Just a little touching, rubbing my clit. Feeling,” Becky sighs, “warmer, better.”

“Loose?” Amy says. 

“Yeah,” Becky agrees. 

“Two fingers now for me,” Amy says.

Becky can’t stifle her moan.

“Me too,” Becky informs her. Becky’s audible, making tiny strained noises like something’s changed.

“You weren’t kidding,” Amy notes, swings her fingers in lazy arcs.

“Hm?” Becky poises. It turns into another moan.

“Fuck,” Amy hisses. “Two fingers on your clit is all it takes?” Amy asks.

“Well,” Becky intones, “not necessarily. But, yeah,” Becky admits.

“You must be so sensitive. All the adrenaline,” says Amy.

“I am. I haven’t come,” Becky takes a shaky breath, “in a few weeks.”

“Too long,” Amy sympathizes. 

“Far too long,” Becky agrees. “Tease yourself.”

Amy dips one digit to finger her opening, swipes the moisture upwards. She knows Becky’s there with her, so she exaggerates just a little, lifts her voice higher than she usually would.

“So nice,” Amy responds, “I’m close.”

Becky closes her eyes, speeds up her motions. Amy watches it happen on screen. 

“I want,” Becky whispers, “I want to come with you.”

“Fuck,” Amy says again, almost drops the phone onto her chest.

“Yeah. So wet now. So slick,”

“Yeah?”

Becky hums in appreciation, her head falls back. It’s not the perfect view, but Amy loves the caverns of Becky’s neck, loves the shadows playing there.

“You’re watching me,” Becky’s voice is displaced, indicated by movement of her chin. “Watching me get off.”

Amy can’t find anything to say. Becky’s other hand appears in the frame as she lands on her chest. She toys her nipple, palms her breast tenderly. Amy’s hips roll, anticipating a climax. 

“Wanna see me come?” Becky asks. 

“Yeah,” Amy admits, “So much.”

“Tell me,” Becky says.

“You’re fucking hot. So elegant,” Amy cants her hips, “Watching you touch your breasts. Gets me so fucking wet. My clit’s so tense,” Amy lets her motions catch up with her words. A huge moan shivers out of her mouth.

They listen to each other breathe, so heavily, like exchanging secrets.

“Fuck,” Becky intones. 

“Come with me,” Amy says, finally. 

“Yeah,” says Becky.

Amy feels so sharp, so wanton. It pangs something in her chest, watching Becky inflate with the build-up. Her motions make the picture shake. Amy can’t tear her eyes away, can’t close them as she comes, the image of Becky’s mouth, a gaping black pixel thrown open in pleasure, sending her over.

Becky’s quiet when she comes, but Amy can see it. Like smoke rising from a chimney, Becky’s face flushes red. She swallows, breathes with a renewed clarity. 

She takes her time righting her head onto her shoulders, like she’s afraid to look at the empty screen. 

“Fuck,” Becky repeats. Amy traces the word as it rises through Becky’s throat, floats from her lips.

“Yeah,” Amy says.

Becky laughs, nervous. She unclenches her breast, covers her face with that hand. 

“Nice o-face,” Amy cracks.

It pulls the curtain down between them. Becky smiles, eyes the screen shyly.

“Shut up,” Becky dismisses, another giggle.

“M’ serious,” Amy levels.

“Wish I could say the same,” Becky says. 

It doesn’t sting like Amy thought it would. Instead it puffs her up, like wind to her back. She lazily grabs her cup from the coffee table.

“If I smoked, I’d light one for you,” Amy says. She knocks back a gulp. The alcohol hits her tongue with ease, as if every taste bud welcomed the inebriation.

“In my honor,” Becky furthers.

“In your glory, yeah,” Amy agrees.

“I think you did the trick,” Becky says around a yawn.

“Kicked the insomnia?” Amy checks.

“Yeah,” Becky’s eyes are downcast, staring at the keyboard, maybe. 

“Well, I’ll let it take over, then,” says Amy.

“M’kay,” Becky says, withdrawing. 

Amy lets herself stare, tries to urge the silence to lift Becky’s chin. But it won’t. The distance is too thick, too sprawling to give the illusion of intimacy.

“I miss you. I miss everyone, but, yeah,” Amy says, “I miss you,” she repeats.

“We miss you too,” Becky wishes, “Happy birthday,” she yawns again.

“Thanks. Get some rest,” Amy instructs.

Becky nods. She knows that Amy can see her, knows that Amy’s looking. Really looking. Becky doesn’t forget things, Amy thinks. Once she knows, she’ll always know.

“G’night Amy,” Becky whispers.

“G’night,” Amy says directly into the mouthpiece. 

It’s a short walk to her bedroom. Even with the stiffness, the irregular blood flow through her heart, each step is heavy. The champagne places a thick haze over her eyes. Her chest thuds, agonizing, in a wanton but guilty way. Amy can feel the distance between her heart and her head doubling, her thoughts multiplying into an infinite regression.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [just a common love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/737065) by [timequakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timequakes/pseuds/timequakes)




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